Nightshade
by President Luthor
Summary: The sequel to Inquisitor. Bruce Wayne's butler, Alfred, is missing. Is he still alive? Will a brewing conspiracy among rogue agents threaten to ignite the Luthor and Wayne rivalry into a war, and force Clark to choose sides?
1. Part 1

SUMMARY: The sequel to "Inquisitor". This story will serve as a prequel to the clash of empires between Luthor and Wayne. Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne have set aside their differences to rebuild Metropolis in the aftermath of Dark Thursday. Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce's butler (and a former MI6 agent) is missing. As Clark faces the fallout of his broken friendship with Lex, could an even greater conspiracy threaten to ignite the Wayne-Luthor rivalry into a war? Bruce and Lex have been friends since childhood. Will Lex's quest for power conflict with Bruce's own mysterious agenda? Clark, Bruce and Lex are set on irreversible paths. Fate has no favourites: Bruce and Lex will either find salvation … or their own destruction.

_Disclaimer_: These stories have developed an inner continuity since "Trophy", where past events may affect future developments. (ie. Clark met Bruce Wayne in 2001, Lex and Bruce were schoolchums in boarding school, Oliver Queen met Clark three years ago and there is bad blood between Alfred Pennyworth and Lionel Luthor.) Dramatic license prevails over strict interpretation of show -or comics- canon in most cases.

TITLE: "Nightshade"

PG-13

**PART 1**

A hideous explosion echoed on the other line of the US Army transmitter. Chloe broke her radio silence and screamed, despite Alfred's instructions to remain quiet while the mission was active. Alfred and his handpicked team of operatives were only 50 km from Poland's eastern border with Belarus: his last communications confirmed that the mission was a success.

Now, there was only the eerie crackle of dead static.

"Drummer Girl to Falconer … do you copy, Falconer?" Chloe repeated frantically several times, using the John Le Carre novel-inspired code name Alfred had assigned her and Alfred's MI6 alias.

Clark took a deep breath. He had known Alfred Pennyworth for over five years and the Kents considered the butler as one of their best friends. Could he be gone forever?

"He's … he's gone, Chloe," Clark struggled to utter the words. Alfred and his team were in mid-flight and were approaching the Polish border when they came under fire from anti-aircraft batteries. He was certain that it was an explosion.

"No, Clark," Chloe refused to accept it. "It's a technical malfunction! Maybe his plane got caught in some turbulence, maybe Belarus security forces jammed his frequency, maybe the USAF are escorting him into Poland …" Her explanations came out in staccato bursts.

"Chloe," Clark pleaded, as he rested a hand on her shoulder. "He knew the risks, better than anyone …" His words were meant to comfort her, but it had the opposite effect. Chloe wanted to help Alfred: he was her friend, one of her closest.

_I could have done more_, she told herself. _I could have stopped him from going to eastern Europe_.

"He's not dead," Chloe muttered in disbelief. "Alfred's … not … dead."

_How could it end like this?_ Clark thought. _Alfred Pennyworth is dead._ He tried to make sense of the chaos, as his mind travelled back to the events of the past few weeks ...

* * *

Chloe had gone to the Planet to look up archived stories about government-sponsored clandestine military operations.

With Lex and Lana at the fundraising gala in Luthor Commerce Square, Clark thought it would be safe to visit Lionel Luthor at the estate. Lionel was reading the Gotham Gazette in the library. The front page depicted Bruce's visit to WayneTech's plant in Metropolis. When he told Lionel about the Checkmate Protocols and Alfred's long absence, Lionel shrugged.

"I hear young Bruce has come to mark his territory again in Metropolis," Lionel sneered, pointing at the photo of Bruce in painter's overalls. "See how happy he is painting WayneTech's walls? A man of the people." Lionel poured the red wine decanter and refilled his glass. "As if he's ever suffered like the people of Metropolis!"

"Bruce just wants to help Metropolis," Clark insisted. "Anyway, I came to find out if you know anything about these Checkmate Protocols."

"Your source, Mr. Munch, is an extremely dangerous man," Lionel declared, wagging his finger at Clark. "He's a crackpot UFO bounty hunter – but he's still dangerous. Unfortunately he may be right. My sources on Capitol Hill tell me that the political climate is ripe for the rise of a new order. The adherents of these Checkmate Protocols are tired of what they perceive as a lack of political will and moral clarity among their co-workers in Congress, the Pentagon, Homeland Security and other critical agencies. If they are indeed active, a quiet bureaucratic coup d'etat may already be under way. If, as you say, Alfred has chosen to stand against them – your favourite butler may already be dead. These people are that powerful." Lionel swirled the red wine in his glass, then took another sip as he settled on the grand piano's bench. "Alfred always was a bit of crusader. Was he naïve? Maybe, He had common sense, though it appears it's deserted him if he thinks he can stop these Checkmate zealots. Why he chose to waste his time and talents coddling that overgrown frat boy Bruce Wayne is beyond me!"

"Why do you hate the Waynes so much?" Clark demanded. "Are you jealous of what they've done with their wealth to help people?"

Lionel smiled. "Ah, the arrogance of youth! It's a bit more complicated than jealousy, Clark. Don't believe everything you've heard from Lex. Thomas Wayne and I weren't always mortal enemies." Lionel pulled out his wallet and thumbed through a few photos of Lillian, Lucas, a senator and a mayor. He tugged at an older, black-and-white photo and handed it to Clark.

Clark's eyes widened. It showed a much younger Lionel (with a shaggy 1970s mane), Thomas Wayne and his fair-haired girlfriend on the deck of a yacht. The coastline in the background could have been the French Riviera, or perhaps the Mediterranean.

"You were friends with Thomas Wayne?" Clark wondered.

"This was long before I met Lillian," Lionel said. "But that's in the past." He covered his mouth, as he considered how much had changed in his relationship with Wayne Manor. His finger lingered (perhaps too long) on the photo of Thomas' girlfriend: the future Martha Wayne. He quickly tucked the photo into his wallet, but Clark had already noticed.

"You had a thing for her?" Clark blurted. "Lex never told me about this before!"

Lionel played a few incoherent notes on the piano. "I see you've picked up Miss Sullivan's nosiness for other people's business! When I knew Tom Wayne, he had just completed his research on artificial heart valve technology and was still living off the family's railway fortunes. One thing he lacked was the social graces required of the jet-set. That's where Martha fit in. She wasn't your typical Ivy League New Englander, either. She was vivacious, enchanting and effortlessly gracious. I was infatuated …"

"And?" Clark inquired impatiently.

"That's none of your concern," Lionel stated emphatically. "Or Bruce's for that matter! I lost and Thomas won her over. He proceeded to transform his family's company into a global empire. He represented the old order: power by privilege. I vowed that I would never assume anything by entitlement. I would earn my place by my own efforts. Thomas and I …" Lionel struggled to form the next few words. "… we had our differences and we never spoke again. I was uninvited from the wedding. In a few years, Martha would be with child …" Lionel began to pour another glass of wine from the decanter, but he paused. He remembered one glorious cruise on the French Riviera, with a good friend from Gotham, a bottle of wine and an incredible woman he has lost to a Wayne.

"I'm sorry, Clark," Lionel said, returning to his former reticence. "You overestimate my influence in the halls of power. There's nothing I can do about Alfred. If you say that Checkmate may be after him, he's as good as dead." Lionel straightened his blazer and got up.

Clark grabbed his arm before Lionel could leave. "How can you just brush him off like that?" he glared. "Alfred's the only family Bruce has left. Your issues were with Thomas Wayne, not his son! If Martha Wayne once meant so much to you, how can you just sit here and do nothing!"

Lionel glowered at Clark. "Don't presume that you understand me, just because you've gained some of my confidence. Thomas was an arrogant fool, and it was his stubbornness that led him to walk through Crime Alley and to his death! Martha, however, deserved better. She didn't have to die like that, to die in the gutter. I mourned her death – don't you ever presume otherwise!" He turned away, horrified at his memories of that fateful day. The TV cameras descended like locusts, capturing for eternity the grisly blood-stained scene. Martha's pearl necklace had been ripped off her neck, only to be tossed aside in panic once the killer had shot her.

"I didn't _choose_ to be Thomas Wayne's enemy," Lionel said, as he tried to conceal his bitterness. "He chose to be _mine_. Despite all his faults, Thomas was a man of principle, a visionary. As far as I'm concerned, Bruce doesn't deserve to bear his father's name. Cavorting with playmates and racing sports cars against Bavarian princelings on the Autobahn is hardly the legacy one would expect from the son of a Wayne."

"You don't know Bruce like I do," Clark protested. He didn't want to admit it, but he began to question if he really did know Bruce Wayne. Bruce never told him why he travelled on these foreign sabbaticals or studied relentlessly, all this on top of the burdens of running a global corporation.

Lionel gave in to his impulse and poured another glass of wine. "I suspect that you know far less about Bruce than you realize. You could never be part of his world. You're simply too good for it. You would be a lamb among wolves." He walked to the library shelf and paused at the Roman centurion helmet on a pedestal. "Leave the decadence to the decadent," he continued. "Let them revel in their aimless circuses. Gotham was supposed to be the "new Rome": that's what Wayne's forefathers said when they turned old Gotham Town into the transportation hub of the East Coast. Like Rome, it will fall. It already has! My obligation to the Waynes ended when Thomas severed our friendship all those years ago. I blame Alfred for letting Bruce squander his family's honour on pinup models and extravagant adventures. If Alfred has met his maker, it's of his own doing." Lionel was angry that Clark had prompted him to recall painful memories from his past about the Waynes and he resented that he had (briefly) dropped his guard.

"Alfred's a resourceful man," Clark said, "He's alive and we'll find him – even without your help."

Lionel no longer listened to him. "You've invited yourself here so many times, I've lost count. I'm sure you can show yourself out." Lionel gulped the last drop of wine from his glass, and waved his hand dismissively. "Good day to you, Clark. Please send my regards to your mother."

After Clark had left, Lionel pulled out his wallet again and found the photo of himself, Thomas and Martha. His eyes beamed as he looked upon the dazzling smile of the future Mrs. Wayne.

"You stupid fool," Lionel said, and he wondered if his insult was directed at Thomas – or at himself. Why did Thomas have to go to Crime Alley that night? Why did Martha have to die? He was convinced that Martha Wayne had been the only beacon of light in the decrepit alleys of Gotham City. He raised his empty glass in the air. "To Martha Wayne: a toast," he uttered quietly. "You deserved a better fate than this."

Bruce had suffered too, but he wilfully forgot that detail. Lionel also neglected his attempts to smear Thomas Wayne's legacy after the murders (with tasteless and salacious tales that Lionel had plastered on LuthorMedia's tattle sheets across the continent and in Europe to fuel his emerging media assets). Bruce was a charlatan and a playboy: an impostor unworthy of the Wayne name. If Martha Wayne were alive, Lionel thought, Bruce could have been groomed into a great man. One who could have fulfilled their family's centuries-old ambition to elect a Wayne to public office.

Now, Alfred's blind loyalty to Thomas' idealism might have cost the butler his own life.

Lionel shook his head again. _You stupid fool._

* * *

End of **Part 1**. To be continued in **Part 2**.


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

Chloe glanced at the wall clock. _1 a.m. Central Time_. She still had to edit for her final draft on the parking meter fiasco: a few city councillors had abused their status to avoid paying for parking around Metropolis. They were on the city's business at the time, they protested. Her mind was on anything but work, of which the City Editor had reminded her daily. Alfred was missing and possibly dead: she was unwilling to accept that presumption without hard evidence.

"You're still on the story about those municipal cheapskates?" Jimmy Olsen asked, surprising her with a peck on the cheek. "I was hoping we'd sign out for the night, grab a pizza and watch one of those chick flicks you've been putting on hold for weeks."

"Do you really want to watch _The Notebook_, Jimmy," Chloe said, "or do you have other plans for me tonight?"

Jimmy raised his eyebrows mischievously. "Maybe I do, but I just wanted to spend some quality time with everyone's favourite computer-savvy gal pal."

Chloe beamed. "That's so sweet! But duty calls. I need to find out if there's a pattern with Checkmate's operations. If I can figure that out, it might help me find out what these rogue agents are up to. Maybe we can still find Alfred …" Alfred had been missing for weeks, but Detective Munch's visit and the lack of any formal announcement of Alfred's "death" had given Chloe some hope that Bruce Wayne's butler was still alive – somewhere.

Jimmy was disappointed that Chloe would be working late – again – but he tried his best to be jovial. "Alfred's basically earned his '_00'-_status with MI6, right? I'm sure he's sipping a vodka martini on some yacht along the French Riviera right now, with a bevy of bikini-clad babes frolicking on the deck."

"I don't think a spy's life is that exotic or leisurely," Chloe smiled. "I'll have to take a rain check on movie night" Jimmy gave her a kiss. As he was about to leave, he froze. "What's wrong, Jimmy?" Chloe asked.

Lex Luthor, in his woollen overcoat, black driving gloves and tailored purple dress shirt, appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Olsen," Lex said, "I enjoyed your photo in yesterday's Planet. On page 47, or was it page 67? An old lady's 100th birthday at the home for the aged? Riveting stuff, a credit to the Daily Planet's prize-winning photojournalism department."

Lex's remarks (and the implied insult) had hurt Jimmy, but he refused to show it. "At the rate you're going Lex," Jimmy replied, "you'd be lucky to reach the big 5-0."

Lex smirked; he was satisfied that he had put Jimmy on the defensive. "I have things to discuss with Ms. Sullivan." Lex's tone was calm, but his message was clear: he expected Jimmy to leave the room.

Jimmy was about to protest, but Chloe put a hand on his arm. "It's okay, Jimmy. I'll see you later. I can hold my own with Lex Luthor. And he knows that." Jimmy, emboldened by Chloe's confidence, strolled past Lex and grinned smugly at him.

"I have a job to do, Lex," Chloe began, "and you're wasting my time. I have deadlines to meet. I also have a duty to the truth, which might be a foreign concept to you. If you think you've rattled Jimmy with your lame schoolyard taunts, you'll find that he's made of tougher stuff."

"It seems to me that it's not Jimmy who's been rattled," Lex observed coyly. He glanced at the final draft of Chloe's article on her computer monitor. "While you've been focusing on how our elected officials spend their, ahem, pocket change, I've been working with Bruce on rebuilding Metropolis and keeping the streets safe from criminals."

"This truce you've concocted between Luthor Mansion and Wayne Manor doesn't fool me … and it isn't going to fool the people of Metropolis," Chloe said. "It eats you up inside that Bruce is getting more credit for his reconstruction efforts than you are. That's because Bruce doesn't have an agenda. With the Luthors, there's always an ulterior motive." She crossed her arms confidently, noticing that Lex seemed uncomfortable at the suggestion that he had other motives for cooperating with Bruce.

Lex wasn't about to let Chloe Sullivan gloat about the tenuous position in which he now found himself. Lex needed the Wayne Foundation's considerable donations and political clout to rebuild Metropolis. With Bruce's help, he would get federal disaster relief, support from Topeka and access to Bruce's corporate contacts. The people of the city wanted a quick return to normal life, and without Wayne's influence, that process may take years instead of months. He didn't relish the thought of owing Bruce anything, but it was a momentary necessity. Bruce claimed that he wanted no credit, but all the national papers had heralded his actions as "heroic", "selfless" and even "patriotic". _Bruce might not seek glory, but that glory sought him nonetheless_, he observed.

"I understand that you've been looking into Alfred's Cold War closet," Lex said, abruptly ending the awkward discussion about Bruce Wayne.

"Your father may have written him off as dead," Chloe said, "but Alfred is alive. I know he is!"

Lex sensed that Chloe wasn't entirely certain that was the case. "My father is hardly an objective source when it comes to anything Wayne-related. His tabloid rags dragged the Wayne family name through the mud in the years after the murder of Bruce's parents." He smiled at childhood memories of Alfred's fatherly influence around Bruce the orphan. "It was Alfred who kept Bruce out of the worst of it." He handed Chloe a manila folder labelled _CLASSIFIED: Ministerial Clearance Only – MI6_.

Chloe's jaw dropped. The documents appeared to be Alfred's secret personnel file from MI6. It was heavily censored (with large paragraphs blacked out), and about six pages were missing, but it contained information that Alfred had never disclosed in public.

Lex sat in a chair across from Chloe. "You may characterize my relationship with Bruce Wayne as strained, but I've considered Alfred Pennyworth as a friend of mine." Chloe didn't seem to be paying attention, as she devoured as much information as she could from the file. "I was as surprised as you," Lex continued, "to discover that Alfred holds a second-degree black belt in aikido."

"And that he provided intel during the invasion of Panama …" Chloe added, as she skimmed through the rest of the documents. "Who'd have thought that he spoke fluent Russian, intermediate Cantonese and passable Farsi? But I won't insult your intelligence by asking you how you obtained these classified documents. They're photocopied, so I'm assuming that your people weren't foolish enough to actually steal the file. Which begs the question: why does Lex Luthor have a secret dossier on Bruce Wayne's butler?"

"A reporter to the last," Lex quipped, ignoring her question. "Let me assure you that I want to find Alfred safe and sound. I owe him that much."

Lex seemed sincere, but Chloe remained sceptical. "Lionel's written off Alfred as dead. You want him alive. Why does that not surprise me?" She feared that Lionel and Lex would use Alfred as a pawn in their family struggles over LuthorCorp.

Lex was indifferent, revealing nothing of his intentions. "Keep the file, Chloe. I've always had my suspicions that Alfred has never left the game. Bruce may not even be aware how involved Alfred truly is in world current affairs. When someone's been in the cold for as long as Alfred, there's always a price that must paid. Alfred is a good man who happens to be in a deadly business. Taking a leap of faith can be like jumping out of a plane without a chute. I wanted to make sure that you have the facts before you jump in with both feet." He picked up a copy of the Daily Planet, replacing it with a one-dollar bill. "My contribution to the free press," he said as he left the room.

Lex was right, Chloe admitted. She was rattled by his visit. His possession of Alfred's MI6 personnel file was disconcerting, but she was grateful that it was censored and incomplete. If she had insufficient information about Alfred, then so did Lex Luthor. Lex's relationship with Alfred may not have been warm, but it had been cordial until the infamous showdown at Luthor Commerce Square: a firefight between the Tony Zucco mob and Metropolis P.D. on the site of the LuthorCorp. development. Her understanding was that Lex's "friendship" with Alfred had soured then, but Alfred had known Lex since his earliest boarding school days. Bruce and Lex were classmates and friends. Maybe Lex still valued Alfred's friendship? Was he really mending fences with Wayne Manor? Lex seemed to have respect for Bruce's butler, even after the Helena Bertinelli incident that exposed Lex's ties to the Zucco mob.

Chloe had already googled all the major UK papers: there were no obituaries or announcements about the death of a certain Wayne Manor butler. A few discreet inquiries to the Daily Planet's London bureau revealed that Britain was swept up in an espionage scandal, fuelled by the discovery of an alleged CIA-sponsored operative in the Ministry of Defence. The whole of Europe was now rife with paranoia about "allies spying on allies". That agent could be a Checkmate loyalist, she speculated.

Aside from a few scattered copy editors and custodial staff, the Daily Planet was quiet at half-past one in the morning. Chloe walked down the hallway to the empty copy room to photocopy an article about the mysterious death of some long-forgotten French diplomat who was collecting evidence about shady corporate financial activities in Eastern Europe. He had visited the Ukraine near the wastelands of the infamous Chernobyl nuclear disaster and he apparently died of exposure to toxins in his food (that was the official report). It was written off as the consequence of high radiation in the region, but Chloe thought the explanation was too clean, too perfect. It seemed to fit Chloe's speculative profile of Checkmate operations: a murder made to look like an accident (such as food poisoning, car crashes or natural disasters), with no suspects and no motive other than causing havoc or disrupting progress on some diplomatic or political endeavour. Her profile on these alleged conspirators was too vague, yet these cases – these dead (or slain) men and women – died for reasons unknown to all but the killers.

The hum of the photocopier droned while she waited for the copies. Then, half of the ceiling's florescent lights went off and on rapidly. Chloe paused, assuming that the flickering lights were someone's idea of a practical joke. "Okay, Jimmy, knock it off! You can come out of hiding now." When there was no answer, she cleared her throat again. "Alright, this isn't funny. Show yourself." When no one answered, she quickly picked up her photocopies and began to leave the room. Without warning, a gloved hand muffled her mouth while another arm pulled her away from the doorway.

"Not one word, Miss Sullivan," the voice rumbled behind her. When Chloe glanced around, she recognized her assailant. It was Alfred Pennyworth, dressed as a Daily Planet custodian in navy blue overalls. A wrinkled maintenance cap was pulled low over his brow; he could have been in the building for hours and no one would have noticed him.

"No one bothers to look at the help," Alfred said softly. He examined the name patch on his uniform. "I'm fortunate that Mr. Williams' work clothes were my size." Chloe gave him a long hug. _How did you get here — when did you –_ Chloe's eyes seemed to ask a dozen questions frantically, as she looked up at the butler's face. He seemed to be well, although his beard had several days of stubbly growth.

"We have much work to do," Alfred said. "As far as the Daily Planet and the outside world are concerned, I am still missing."

"It's about Checkmate – isn't it," Chloe asked. "What can I do?" She discreetly tucked Alfred's MI6 file into her tote bag.

"I need your help," Alfred began, "because I'm about to start a war."

* * *

**Part 3** to follow. 


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the main entrance of the now-defunct _Luthor Industries Plastics Plant No. 2_, hidden in the industrial block of east end Metropolis. In moments, a midnight blue limousine (bearing the license plate WayneLTD03) parked behind it. Bruce Wayne, reclusive Gotham billionaire and emerging captain of industry, had spent several weeks in Kansas assessing the aftermath of Dark Thursday and raising funds for the city's reconstruction effort. His relationship with Lex Luthor was estranged, but unlike Clark's open hostility with Lex, they remained civil and the recent crisis provided them with an opportunity to mend fences. They were of the same social status and had been friends since childhood: some bonds would be harder to break.

Alfred's abrupt departure for the UK was unexpected, and Clark's revelation that Alfred had taken up his former trade as a British intelligence agent only caused further worry. Bruce was grateful that Clark told him about Alfred's return to MI6, though his friend didn't elaborate on how he obtained such information.

Oddly, Bruce thought, it's comforting to know that I can still talk openly to Lex about this.

"Clark never fully explained how he learned about Alfred's return to the espionage industry," Bruce admitted, as he stepped out of the limo and into the dusk. Alfred had asked a man known only as "Dale" to serve as Bruce's personal driver and bodyguard during his absence. The man's sparse personnel file stated that he was a former CIA agent and US Army Ranger who ran a security consulting business in Virginia. Dale did his job well, but it had become clear to Lex that the guy lacked the humour and charm of Wayne Manor's butler.

Lex exited the Town Car, accompanied by two burly LuthorCorp. security guards. As they entered the old plastics plant, Lex glanced at Dale … who never smiled, much less talked. Lex wasn't even sure if the man had a neck underneath his large, crew cut head.

"Chloe Sullivan," Lex replied belatedly. "Alfred and the Planet's wedding announcement specialist struck up a friendship when we blocked my father's attempt to take over Queen Enterprises. I bet she found out about Alfred's extracurricular activities across the pond. Past experience has taught me that Clark Kent and Chloe Sullivan aren't up front about a lot of things. You should bear that in mind." He pulled up a red handle to turn on the plant's electricity. The row of fluorescent lights above the hallway buzzed and flickered on and off.

Bruce wiped a streak of dust from an office door window in the hallway and brushed it off his fingers. "Lionel got out of the plastics manufacturing business in the eighties, didn't he? Why did you bring me to Metropolis' industrial frontier? I'm assuming it's not a sightseeing trip."

Lex keyed an electronic pad, unlocking the garage doors of a large warehouse. "I only use this facility for surplus storage," he said. Bruce didn't believe that, but he thought he might be able to learn more about Lex's ventures in military hardware and biochemical research if he played the role of the naïve, rookie Gotham executive. LuthorCorp.'s failed Leviathan Project had alerted Bruce to Lex's escalation of questionable (and controversial) military and scientific experiments.

The room was vacant, except for a few items covered beneath canvas emblazoned with the LuthorCorp. logo.

"Are you interested in seeing what's behind Curtain Number One?" Lex asked, anticipating Bruce's reaction. Bruce then sneezed.

"Excuse me," Bruce said, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. "I've been renovating the lower basement of Wayne Manor – it's the dust, my allergies have become more sensitive."

Lex was tempted to ask how long it would take to restore Wayne Manor to its pre-1930's splendour but he set that detail aside. Bruce had the money and time to indulge in eccentricities, he mused, and one of his pet projects was heritage preservation. The Wayne Foundation had restored several buildings in Gotham City and contributed $10 million to the Metropolis Historical Board's Restoration Fund last year. Lex slowly pulled back the canvas, revealing the rusted wreckage of his Porsche: the same vehicle that plunged over Loeb Bridge over six years ago.

"That's the car," Bruce said. "The one Clark Kent pulled you from. Clark told me you could have drowned if he hadn't yanked you through the window."

"That's the story he's sticking with," Lex muttered. He pulled the canvas off the other items in the room. One display pedestal held a sample of the green meteor rock that crashed into Smallville in 1989, and a few feet away, another stand held a large boulder embedded with red meteor clusters. Another pedestal held a stack of manila folders and floppy disks, many of them labelled 'C. Kent' and a few with odd-sounding labels – 'Milton Fine', 'Kawatche', 'Summerholt' and 'Zod' among them. Lex pulled off the last canvas, which revealed a single laptop computer and chair.

"I come here when I need to refresh my memory," Lex said. "To restore my faith in the facts. As you know, I am a man of science."

"Why are you still investigating Clark Kent?" Bruce asked innocently. "I know he has an uncanny ability to attract bad luck and has some issues with nick-of-time heroics, but I don't think he's at the centre of some hidden agenda. He's a meddler – I'll grant you that – but he just wants to help people."

Lex smiled, accepting Bruce's apparent naivety about Clark's duplicity. "Ever since that meteor shower, many strange things happened in Lowell County: mysterious disappearances, unexplained deaths, ordinary people exhibiting extraordinary abilities …"

Bruce laughed. "Don't tell me you're buying into this alien invasion crap that some of the locals been going on about for years –"

"I'm willing to accept that some things cannot be explained by modern science," Lex said, "but what I can't condone is the lies and secrecy that some of these same locals have perpetuated to hide the truth."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Lies?" If the townspeople of Smallville were lying about what was actually going on in their county, he thought, Lex would be justified in investigating them … including the Kents.

Lex leaned closer to Bruce. "I have files on Clark Kent, his family, Chloe Sullivan and the rest," he proclaimed, "because I have no doubt in my mind that Chloe and Clark have files on me." He walked a few paces and raised the garage door again. As an afterthought, he turned to Bruce again. "Files on me … and on you."

Bruce had long suspected that the strange events in Lowell County occurred for a reason. He didn't believe in spirits, monsters or aliens – but a cover-up would mean that these accidents and deaths were more than coincidental or Luthor-initiated.

"What makes you think they've got me in their _My Documents_ folder?" Bruce asked. He wanted to believe that Clark was honest and had the best of intentions, but Clark's evasive answers to his questions about Smallville's more troubling incidents had begun to affect their friendship.

Lex clicked a key on the laptop. "A random IT sweep of LuthorCorp. communications revealed an attempt to access Wayne Enterprises' network last week, using LuthorCorp. servers in New Jersey," he said. "An incomplete IP trace led back to Kansas, with its origin somewhere in the Greater Metropolis Area. The hacker's IP bounced throughout the municipal area and the trail's gone cold."

He handed a purple USB drive to his Gotham friend. "WayneTech's technology division has no equal on earth," Lex stated. "Your people might have better success than mine." He motioned to his security guards to cover the items with canvas again.

Bruce held the drive in his hand cautiously, uncertain if the wanted to know the truth. Could Clark Kent be trusted? He was sure that Lex's animosity towards Clark was part of his motivation to "help" him, but he couldn't set aside his suspicions either. Lex's concerns had some merit.

Lex contemplated the Porsche's haunting wreckage. He and Clark were the best of friends, but time and deception had taken a terrible toll on their friendship. "After Clark saved my life," Lex began, "I truly believed that I could never repay him for giving me a second chance at life. What I didn't know was that Clark would continue to call upon that life-debt to excuse his dishonest and reckless behaviour." He nodded dismissively at the heap of metal scraps. "It was my albatross." The garage door slowly descended, its lock slamming shut and echoing throughout the facility.

"And now?" Bruce asked, as he held the entrance door open for his childhood friend.

Lex paused as he studied the dilapidated plastic plant behind him. LuthorCorp. would rise to far greater heights under his stewardship. He wanted it all – and nothing would stop him.

"I'm an ambitious man," Lex said. "I won't allow Clark's petty grudges to hold me back any longer. Don't allow him do the same to you, Bruce. I hope we can look past our differences and keep our own friendship intact." He extended his left hand.

Bruce hesitated, but he had known Lex since they were classmates in prep school and he wanted to believe that Lex could still reform his ways (despite Alfred's misgivings about all Luthors). He shook Lex's hand. "Like the tabloids say, we're _'bound by honour …'_" Bruce began.

"'… _and cursed by tragedy'_," Lex completed the timeworn slogan the media had adopted to describe the legendary Wayne-Luthor friendship and rivalry.

Dale, Bruce's neckless bodyguard/driver, held open the limo door for his boss and nodded grimly to Lex. The man was there to ensure Bruce's safety, nothing more.

"Have you decided yet?" Bruce asked, assuming that he didn't need to elaborate. After nearly two decades of friendship, they could almost read each other's thoughts. For the first time that night, Lex broke out into a wide grin.

"Yes," he replied. "I'm going to ask her – when the timing is right. Soon. I want to marry Lana Lang." And to hell with what Clark Kent might think, he vowed.

* * *

**Part 4** will follow. As Bruce begins to question his trust in Clark Kent, Alfred's fate in eastern Europe may be revealed at last ... 


	4. Part 4

**Part 4**

Alfred Pennyworth, former butler and current MI6 field agent, fired two shots. The first one hit the guard in the leg. The burly man dropped his Kalashnikov rifle, cursed in Russian and tried to pull out his sidearm, but the second shot to his forehead silenced him forever. He wasn't in the uniform of a Belorussian Army soldier: he was a contracted mercenary. The station was now a quarter-mile behind him, the explosives set to go off at 0100 hours.

This secretive base was once used as a central European KGB listening station and interrogation camp during the Cold War. The country of Belarus wasn't swept by the winds of change that followed the collapse of the Berlin Wall and Gorbachev's _perestroika_. A Communist strongman had turned the central European nation into a compact version of old Soviet traditions: one-party rule, secret police and suppression of human rights. The Western powers turned a blind eye because the nation was strategically located, with access to major oil and gas pipelines.

It was on these central European plains that Alfred tracked a cell of Checkmate conspirators: rogue CIA and ex-military personnel who had become disgruntled with the bureaucracy and "political impotence" of their masters in Washington, Langley and Quantico. They sought to reshape the world, whatever the cost. But their adherents weren't only Americans – their cells included bitter nationalists from eastern Europe who detested the failed promises of the West, alienated Marxists and old-guard anarchists who only saw a global, violent revolution as the one, true means to create a new order.

Alfred holstered the Walther P99 pistol, his preferred weapon. He would remember the face of this mercenary, yet another officially-sanctioned "kill" in his deadly history. The man was roughly his own age, bearing the scars of the former Soviet Union's upheavals – perhaps a former Russian soldier who crossed paths with Chechen rebels? He remembered all of their faces. Intelligence officer Alfred Pennyworth's first kill was in Belfast, during the worst of The Troubles that had swept the British province of Northern Ireland in the 1970s. The target was a brigade commander for the IRA, but Alfred knew him as a ruthless extortionist who ran guns and drugs and preyed on his own people. It was a professional hit: two shots in the back and one in the head in an alley outside a pub, made to look like a rival Republican faction had done it. Such was his work during those dark times.

There were other kills – in Hong Kong, Angola, East Germany, the former Yugoslavia and Colombia among them. Turncoats, gun-runners, drug smugglers and other felons who had defied British, American or NATO interests one too many times. They deserved to die, his handlers would say … and to hell with the political (and personal) consequences that followed their deaths. Alfred's conscience bore the consequences for over two decades. The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne forced upon him the guardianship of young Bruce Wayne, and awakened demons he thought he had buried when he resigned his commission in the British Army and walked away from his career as a field officer in MI6 forever. His duty to queen and country had ended then; his duty to the Wayne family's only surviving son was paramount.

He sprinted several yards through the grasslands and spoke into his micro-filament headphone.

"_Drummer Girl_? This is _Falconer_. Target retrieved." Alfred had disabled the listening post's power generators and used the cover of darkness to slip into the lightly-guarded storage facility unnoticed. The Checkmate conspirators had relied on sophisticated technology to secure the remote station, but that security was meaningless if power was cut. He had obtained his objective: Checkmate files pertaining to Wayne Enterprises' Asian operations and its industrial secrets.

Half a world away, Chloe hovered over the hastily-assembled radar and communications station Lois and Alfred had constructed only one week ago. Alfred was livid when Chloe enlisted the help of Clark, Jimmy and Lois, but by the time he had protested, it was a moot point. If they were to help, he had said, they would be expected to work.

Lois and Jimmy had already taken a Wayne Enterprises charter jet to Brussels and would make their way to Germany. They would provide intel and support on the continent – using Lois' NATO contacts (via General Lane) and Jimmy's coveted Daily Planet press pass – to begin the next phase once Alfred retrieved the files from the Checkmate listening station in Belarus. With Lois and Jimmy in Europe, only Clark and Chloe remained in Smallville.

"_Drummer Girl_?" Clark wondered.

"Alfred gave me the _Drummer Girl_ codename from a John Le Carré novel," Chloe explained. "Anyhow, focus on the task at hand, Clark! Alfred needs the coordinates for the rendezvous point, ASAP."

"Rendezvous?" Clark said. "Right, right. Lois transmitted it five minutes ago. 50 yards on his November… whatever that means."

"_Drummer Girl_ to _Falconer_," Chloe stated. "Rendezvous Point is 50 yards to your north." The radar screen glowed an eerie green and blipped, indicating that a twin engine plane had landed north of Alfred's location.

"Copy that," Alfred replied. "Proceeding to rendezvous. Commencing radio silence." With a burst of static, Alfred shut off his microphone.

He was alone again. When Bruce learned about his intention to return to MI6, he objected. At the time, Alfred dismissed his concerns as trivial: in fact, he had carried out "security consulting" on behalf of Great Britain and its NATO allies throughout his service with Wayne Manor, with Thomas' (and later, Bruce's) tacit approval.

But Alfred had tendered his resignation before he had left, and Bruce took it personally. Alfred did not approve of Bruce's personal quest over the past few years, and he assumed that Bruce's anger stemmed from that. He left Wayne Manor to protect Bruce from the consequences of what he was about to do.

_Too many things were left unsaid between us_, Alfred thought. _Too much time has passed_.

Alfred found the rendezvous in a low-lying area of the countryside. The Cessna 177 aircraft's propeller was already spinning. The pilot, a veteran British SAS officer, nodded to him. To the rear, two more SAS operatives also nodded grimly. They would do as they were ordered: the briefing said that it was a classified NATO mission. They would arrive across the Polish border in about half an hour, and Alfred silently prayed that they would remain below the radar of the Belorussian Army's listening posts. _An international incident would complicate matters_, the MI6 minder had warned in his briefing dossier. The brute he had killed was in his way tonight.

The next twenty minutes seemed to last much longer. The Cessna flew below the radar listening post's range throughout their westward trip. No one knew they were there, and it was hoped that the civilian plane might not attract attention. There was an explosion in the rear. Someone with a rocket-propelled grenade – an RPG – had fired upon them, with the Polish border only moments away. The tail snapped in mid-air, taking the youngest SAS soldier with it. The other man gripped his throat in agony, gurgling incoherently. Blood streamed from a hideous neck wound onto his camouflage jumpsuit. Alfred patted his own cheek, which had been sliced by a metal shard.

"Get out, Pennyworth!" the pilot ordered. The plane was descending rapidly.

"Damn it, man," Alfred cursed. "We'll have to parachute out of here." Then he looked at the pilot's abdomen – a large piece of metal shrapnel had sliced deep into it.

"Trying to get across the border," the pilot said, his eyes locked on the flight controls. "I'm done for, mate."

"I can't leave you," Alfred insisted.

"I have my duty," the pilot said sternly. "And so do you. I'm the ranking officer. Jump now! That's an order!" Alfred quickly checked his parachute pack. He couldn't argue with the man: the wound was too deep. He felt the wind snap ferociously around him as he jumped.

There were screams, and then two explosions: a huge fireball had erupted on the ground as the explosives incinerated the listening station below. The second explosion was the plane above him. He was free-falling through the sky, unsure if he had pulled the jump cord in time. A jolt of pain ripped through his back and he tried to scream again. He was falling, but he could see nothing at all.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said, as the night claimed him at last. "Please forgive me." There was so much he wanted to tell him, but time had run out.

It seemed like the darkness had devoured him completely ...

Across the Atlantic, Chloe returned to her apartment in the Talon. She was convinced that there had to be an explanation for the loss of communications. Clark was certain that the sound they heard on the radio was an explosion – even now, he was frantically trying to reach Lois or Jimmy in Europe.

Chloe was about to unlock the door, when it opened abruptly.

"Lana?" Chloe wondered. Lana stood in the doorway, wearing in a simple charcoal pantsuit. Her face seemed weary and she was clutching a tissue in her hand.

"I came over as soon as I heard. I – I don't know what to say," Lana began. "Lex was stunned at the news. He's been trying to reach Bruce for the past hour …"

Inside her apartment, the TV was on:

'…_a BBC report from Warsaw suggests that the British soldiers were taking the Cessna to the US Air Force base in Germany, when something went terribly wrong …'_

Martha Kent stood up from the couch; the luggage beside her suggested that she had just arrived from Topeka. "I'm so sorry, Chloe. Jonathan and I were quite fond of Alfred. I can't imagine how Mr. Wayne will react when he finds out …"

Chloe picked up the TV remote and turned up the volume:

'… _a spokesperson for the British Ministry of Defense will neither confirm nor deny that British SAS soldiers were conducting exercises on the Polish-Belorussian border, nor will they confirm that one of the victims of this horrible crash was Alfred Pennyworth, the former butler and family friend of the Wayne family of Gotham City …dental records have yet to be analyzed …_ _there were no survivors_ …'

Chloe wanted to believe it was false, that Alfred had somehow survived.

"No," Chloe said (as if denying it aloud would make it untrue). The TV images of the plane's wreckage and rescue personnel sifting through its debris were burned into her mind. "It's not true. It can't be –"

Lana placed a hand on her shoulder. "They found dog tags," she said. "The bodies were burnt beyond recognition. Four British nationals in army fatigues were in the plane and one of the tags said: _Falconer_. Lex told me Alfred used many aliases for his espionage activities." She began to cry. "Alfred … is dead. I'm so sorry!"

Chloe had grown fond of Wayne Manor's butler, the quick-witted Englishman with a mysterious past. Alfred told her that he never forgave himself for not being there to protect Thomas, Martha and Bruce on that dreadful night in Crime Alley. He sacrificed everything to raise Bruce, to protect him. Now, he was gone.

"No," Chloe repeated again. The tears began to stream down her face. "No!" Chloe slumped onto the floor and sobbed into Lana's shoulder. Alfred was one of the few people that Chloe could trust, even though she kept Clark's secret from him. She was certain that Alfred would have understood when she eventually told him, and why she felt she had to keep it from him. It was too late for regrets. Still, she held on to an irrational belief that Alfred managed to survive the carnage.

Chloe composed herself in a few minutes, then picked up her cellphone and stepped into a hallway. She had to set aside her irrational and wild speculations tonight. Someone had to tell Bruce about the unthinkable.

"Clark," Chloe said, as she fought off tears that were already there, "you have to tell Bruce Wayne what happened. Alfred was like a father to him."

"Jimmy and Lois are stuck in Berlin! What about their mission?" Clark asked. "What about the Checkmate conspiracy, and those files from Belarus?" He was still frantically trying to make a connection on the satellite phone, but Lois and Jimmy weren't responding.

"We'll deal with that – tomorrow. Go to Gotham, Clark," Chloe said, struggling to retain her composure. "You're all Bruce has now."

Clark didn't hesitate. Gotham City was half a continent away, on the eastern seaboard. He was angered that he could do nothing to save Alfred, and nervous about what Alfred's loss might do to Bruce. He met Bruce and Alfred almost seven years ago. He learned that Lex and Bruce had been childhood friends, despite Lionel's historic rivalry with the Waynes of Gotham. He recalled how they had all survived a terror attack in Toronto several years ago and Gotham mobster Tony Zucco's violent entry into Metropolis' underworld. Alfred was always there as a steady hand, reassuring them that they could change the world … and still keep one's integrity.

Clark wiped away a tear. If the reports were true, Alfred was gone and Bruce would need a friend – now more than ever. He had no doubt that Lex would exploit this tragedy to restore his strained friendship with Bruce. The thought of Lex succeeding in this made him feel ill. He sped through the cornfields, and in moments he passed St. Louis. A few minutes later, Baltimore was upon him. He swerved north at the Atlantic coast.

"I'll be there soon, Bruce," Clark said. He owed it to Bruce – and to Alfred. _Let the conspirators of Checkmate, the escaped Zoners and Lex Luthor come_, he vowed. He would take them on at any cost.

The imposing Art Deco skyscraper, Wayne Tower, soon hovered above Gotham Harbour. The hill on which stately Wayne Manor stood was only moments away. He would not let his friend down. On this tragic night, nothing else mattered.

Clark pressed the doorbell beside the large oak doors bearing the Wayne family's 400-year-old coat of arms. Bruce, weary-eyed but emotionless, creaked open the door.

"Bruce, I --" Clark stammered. Bruce embraced his friend, saying nothing.

Alfred was dead; there was nothing left to say.

_**To Be Continued …**_

* * *

Author's Note: This marks the last in a series of short stories leading up to the clash of empires: the inevitable confrontation between Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne. That story will occur after the events of the Season 7 premiere, running parallel to this season's events if appropriate but veering away from them when necessary. Please check my bio page or my homepage for the latest updates. 

_Some highlights_: The marriage of Lana and Lex is over, as Lex's bond with Bruce strengthens. While Bruce Wayne frolics into the night with starlets and supermodels at decadent parties in the tony salons, galas and drawing rooms of Gotham's elite, Clark and friends must overcome a brewing conspiracy during the months after Alfred's death, a death that Chloe refuses to accept as fact. It remains to be seen if there are ulterior motives behind the butler/spy's demise.

The relentless mob wars in Gotham have a devastating impact on someone close to Bruce; will its aftermath compel Lex to cast his lot with Gotham kingpin Tony Zucco ... and risk the wrath of Zucco's underworld enemies?

Bruce is on the verge of his destiny in the shadows, while Lex is establishing his own ruthless legacy. Old friends and foes return, as the fallout of their rivalry ripples around the world.

From Tokyo to Gotham City, Metropolis to Paris … Bruce and Lex will vie for an empire. With the world at stake, Clark plays a pivotal role in this epic "clash of titans". The skirmish has become a war: it will spare none, and nothing will ever be the same again.


End file.
